The Summer Before

Ripe, so ripe was I, young swain;
You were ready for sacraments,
I, not knowing better, for experiments,
not ready for your love, your bane.

I did try, as a lad precocious
should, wanting to return such adience,
such ardency, but I proved only overzealous
incapable of matching your love’s radiance.

Over time I learned the mores
of union and affairs of the heart
of the first sight, of the part.
I could regale you with love stories

whose endings could occasion dabs
of the eye, or if in telling I should tarry,
I would face a hail of diatribes;
where pain and promise marry.

But the fact I’d want you to know
is that I am better, all the more sapient,
because of you, my good docent,
the seed you sowed, continues to grow!